


Management Issues

by J_Baillier



Series: On Pins And Needles [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Autism Spectrum, Big Brother Mycroft, Denial, Family, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Major Illness, Mental Health Issues, Mycroft's Meddling, POV Mycroft Holmes, Protective Mycroft, Recovery, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 14:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: A missing scene from between The Breaking Wheel and On the Rack. A conversation needs to be had about what will happen when Sherlock is discharged from the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery.





	Management Issues

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting on my hard drive for a while, and it felt like the thing to do to release it as a oneshot. I bet you never expected to see a new bit of The Breaking Wheel!
> 
> The [main page of the series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/581221) contains information on the full chronology of the fics that belong to it.

 

With a heavy heart, Mycroft watches his brother learn to walk again. Sherlock is not aware of his presence behind the window of the spacious gym of the NHNN Therapy Services floor, and Mycroft will only allow himself a brief glimpse to ensure he won't disturb the proceedings. Even after months of being bedridden, Sherlock still becomes highly distraught should someone else than John Watson witness signs of his infirmity.

Mycroft returns to Sherlock's room at the Nuffield Ward, a private neurology inpatient unit housed within the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery. There is little difference in the medical care between this ward and that of a publicly funded one, but a private room is an absolute necessity if both the staff and Sherlock himself are to survive his stay with their wits intact.

Mycroft’s Blackberry chimes with a message alert. Sender: Watson, J. Message: _I'll be there in an hour_. He tucks the phone back into his breast pocket. They had agreed to talk to Sherlock together about what happens once he is discharged, but Mycroft has been handling such discussions for far longer than his co-conspirator has. Groundwork must be laid, if they are to succeed, and Watson is much too lenient when it comes to Sherlock's tendency to refuse, flat-out, anything he doesn't like the sound of. As his guardian and brother, Mycroft has experience in enforcing conversations Sherlock does not want to have. It gives Mycroft no pleasure that preventing Sherlock from evading this particular one will be easy since he cannot physically remove himself from the discussion.

There is a long way to go before his little brother can be left to his own devices. Walking – if dragging himself a few steps along two parallel bars can even be called as such – requires a minder, since his legs are so weak he'll be likelier to end up on the floor than his planned destination. Using a phone is painstakingly slow, he tires even from holding up a book, eating requires assistance unless he's willing to let it take the better part of an hour, at the end of which his shirt would need changing.

Even though Mycroft is not privy to details of the conversation Sherlock had staged at the winter garden of the hospital, it is obvious that something related to the army doctor has put him in a much better mood than he has been at any prior point during his illness. It seems that the best escape from the admittedly dire minutiae of a patient recovering from a severe, acute, neurological illness are uncharacteristic daydreams of romance. What else could have been the subject matter of that theatrical rendezvous with John Watson? The secretive, schoolboy-like smiles that now appear on Sherlock’s features in an unadulterated manner whenever the object of his obvious affection makes an appearance are a clue so blatant that only an imbecile wouldn't be able to put two and two together. Mycroft knows better than to ask about it; Sherlock would answer nothing. Besides, they are both aware of Mycroft's formidable deductive abilities and the fact that his people-reading skills easily triumph over Sherlock's.

So, it is not news that his brother has given his heart away, especially because it is hardly a new development. What _is_ new, however, is the reckless abandon with which he has plunged into an adult relationship and allowed himself to lose focus on what is truly important right now: getting well – well enough to return to his old life.

Sherlock does not, however, completely lack self-awareness. There are things he conceals even from John Watson, and those very things are the reason he is hanging on to the man like a life raft and acting like a moody drama queen the moment they must spend time apart.

 _Fear. Uncertainty. Doubt._ It is quite a different thing to want something as opposed to having what one wants and needing to deal with the consequences.

Mycroft sees them, which is why he is currently even less welcome as a well-wisher than he had been at the start of Sherlock's battle with Guillain-Barré syndrome. No, Mycroft's advice in matters of the heart will not be welcome. So, he will do what is in his power: to ensure Sherlock has the best of care as he prepares for life after an ordeal rivalling that of his sectioning in 2007. That year his intellect had been trapped by his madness. Now, his intellect has been trapped by a body transiently ceasing to function and still slowly returning _online_ , as Sherlock has put it. That expression describes his relationship with any aspect of his corporeal being: it is a nuisance to be swatted away and punished without hesitation when it _malfunctions_.

A glance at his watch tells him that there should not be a long wait remaining until Sherlock returns and he is right: the door opens, and he soon receives the glare he had expected for bearing witness to Sherlock being transported in a wheelchair. Out of all things, that may just have caused the most intense objections out of all assistive devices required after he'd been released from intensive care to a regular ward.

Mycroft forces himself not to avert his gaze from the gaunt, frail form currently belonging to his brother, although he does kindly shift his line of sight to his face instead of his sagging clothes. Sherlock's current flavour of rebellion against the hospital rules includes wearing his own, now very ill-fitting clothes, even though many features of them require considerable assistance when visiting the en-suite, and also pose a tripping hazard.

Mycroft makes a note of two unopened cartons of a protein-rich supplemental drink having been dropped into the bin next to the bedside cabinet. He admires the patience of John Watson in trying to force such things on a man who, as a child, would have rather starved than to drink a glass of milk due to finding the texture of it so abhorrent. So averse is Sherlock to many things that do not bother other humans at all that it does not matter whether they are beneficial: he will rather deny the need for them than suffer the inconvenience. Sherlock's words from years ago drift come to mind: _'Don't be ridiculous. I'm not an addict._ ' Fervent denial, even when Mycroft had been gripping his wrist and sliding up his sleeve to reveal the terrible sight of spent, scarred veins with an infection brewing in a crater-like convergence of puncture marks halfway up his forearm.

 _Denial_. Always his go-to strategy.

According to John Watson who had accompanied him to the Accidents and Emergencies department on the day he fell ill, Sherlock had tried to deny having contracted anything more dangerous than the summer flu even when he could no longer get out of bed. When it became apparent that he would have to be hospitalised due to a syndrome that was gnawing away parts of his nerves, he'd still tried to deny and battle the consequences: needing help, losing his ability to look after himself.

Will he deny the aftermath with equal conviction?

"How was therapy today?" Mycroft asks, carefully regulating his tone to only flirt with concern. He needs to sound like he's asking only out of convention and politeness if he is to receive an answer.

Sherlock carefully arranges his palm on the bed next to his thigh and uses two fingers to press the power button on the television remote to turn it on. "Which one?"

"Doctor Watson says you are making very good progress on your upper body strength, _considering_."

Considering that less than a month ago, Sherlock had even lost the ability to move his fingers. Considering that at one point, had someone flicked a switch on the respirator, that would have been the end.

"Don't be tiresome. You can call him John, as he has told you numerous times." The mention of the doctor brings a ghost of a smile on Sherlock's features, one not meant for Mycroft to witness. It wanes, soon, but it is there.

The open fondness Sherlock has begun to express for the army doctor is both a blessing and a curse. It's an easy way out of harsh reality: pretending to enjoy a mockery of a honeymoon while still in this flux state between health and illness. Focusing on such frivolities must make it easy to avoid thinking how difficult things would be if a budding romantic relationship were shifted to the stage of Sherlock's old life – one very unsuited to his current level of infirmity.

"We need to discuss rehabilitation," Mycroft announces.

"John will arrange something at home." Sherlock is looking at the television, not him. Before, he never bothered with such mind-rotting pastimes.

"I have no doubt he would. He would also allow you to give up when you became frustrated enough to act out. He would let you off the hook if reality became too much to deny."

"What reality would that be?"

"You know as well as I do that you will be discharged next week."

"I'm not leaving until I'm walking out of here," Sherlock says, clearly assuming that will be the end of the conversation.

Mycroft cannot decide which is more disturbing: the notion that he'd willingly extend a hospital stay, or that he has picked a channel with what looks like a daytime soap opera. "Your bed will go to someone whose illness is more acute. It is the doctors' decision, not yours, and there are people who need that bed more than you do."

"Clearly, my needs are greater than theirs, since I am not walking yet."

"Your stay here cannot be extended just because you cannot face the facts."

"Them being?" Sherlock's tone is challenging.

"He cannot carry you up the stairs, Sherlock. Either you will need inpatient rehabilitation, or a stair lift needs to be installed at 221B Baker Street. There isn't enough room in your flat for everything that a physical therapist would require for your sessions at this stage, and I know better than to suggest you reside with me until the challenges of your home become manageable."

Logic is the only thing that will vault over Sherlock's barriers. Cold, hard logic.

"John will----" Sherlock starts petulantly.

Mycroft lifts up a hand, which makes him pause. He usually wouldn't; this means Mycroft is getting through to him. "I do not doubt his willingness to help, but he is not a physical therapist or a neurologist. As impatient as you may be to return home to court him---"

Sherlock gives him a bristling glare.

"---you may find that doing so while sounder of body – and mind," Mycroft adds after slight hesitation; love does make such fools out of even more sensible people, "---will make the process far easier and likelier to yield long-lasting results."

"I'm sure you have some hare-brained rehabilitation scheme already cooked up, then," Sherlock says, glancing out the window and then studying his splayed fingers. He is constantly found marvelling at his abilities to command his limbs to move. Not surprising, after being reduced to a pair of eyes for months.

"The dozens of individuals on the waiting list you are about to circumvent would not describe it in those terms." Mycroft opens his briefcase and pulls out a thin folder adorned with glossy images. He passes it to Sherlock who uses half his palm to slide the contents out of the folder. He raises the head of the bed, then painstakingly spreads the documents across his lap. "'Harwich Manor'," he reads out loud. "In _Essex_?"

"I have been assured it is one of the finest private units for neurologic rehabilitation in all of the United Kingdom."

"It's too far away."

Mycroft is not surprised at this argument. He has a very good guess what – or _whom –_ Sherlock does not want to be distant from. But, from Mycroft's perspective, that distance could serve the situation well. Eliminating the distraction of John Watson's constant presence and the larger perspective offered by removal from London will help Sherlock focus. The good doctor will wait, and Sherlock will have an opportunity to consider the ramifications of his choices of late in a more objective manner.

Contrary to what Sherlock might believe, Mycroft does not disapprove of his devotion to John Watson. If anything, the man has proven to be a force for good in his brother's life. The problematic thing is that Mycroft is not entirely sure Sherlock is equipped to handle an intense affair with anyone right now, especially since the illness is distorting his already strained relationship with himself. He has never looked after himself in the way his recovery will demand. He considers his body a handicap, a nuisance; how would he, how _could_ he cope with a shift into a physical relationship in his current fitness level and general state? As a man of the world without personal or long-term observational experience of Sherlock's particular difficulties, John Watson may not be sufficiently appreciative of these challenges.

"I have secured you placement on the day of your discharge. I have also discussed this with Doctor Watson, and he is delighted at the level of expertise available there."

Just like Sherlock, Doctor Watson had _not_ been delighted by the distance. All the more reason to insist on it.

"How long will this take?" Sherlock asks, and Mycroft can imagine him crossing off the days of a wall calendar in his Mind Palace.

"That depends entirely on your goals and your progress rate."

"John agrees to this?"

"Is it truly so surprising that he would be happy for you to receive the best help available?"

"He is the best help available; you just refuse to see it. You'd better make sure he can visit," Sherlock warns him.

A nod comes easily. "Of course."

A relief the intensity of which he had not expected, washes over Mycroft. This is just one hurdle crossed, but an important one. Time away from London may well bring on resignation and depression, but then again, those things may be due regardless of when and where Sherlock convalesces. Judging by everything Mycroft knows about his brother, the road ahead will be difficult, and its bumps cannot be smoothed by promises of kisses from an army doctor, or a fervent denial of the fact that Sherlock will need to relearn all the skills a healthy human adult takes for granted. The only cure will come through perseverance, the stern guiding hand of a professional physical therapist, and time away from tempting distractions.

Mycroft cannot predict with absolute certainty how the new few months will go. He cannot even be certain that an attempt to separate a consulting detective and his blogger won't turn out to be detrimental to the patient's well-being. But, if Sherlock eventually realises he has made a mistake regarding John Watson by starting something when he had not been in the best state to make such grand decisions, Mycroft will step in. Putting a sizable patch of English countryside between the two will ensure that making a separation permanent will be easy if the need arises.

Sherlock drops his phone from the bedside cabinet onto his bed, manages to flip it over and open the message window. He looks dismayed.

"John will be here soon," Mycroft assures him.

"Then there's no need for you to stand there looking like you've swallowed your umbrella. Shoo," Sherlock orders. The fact that he wants Mycroft to leave is nothing new, but the urgency with which he is seeking to ensure privacy for him and Watson certainly is a novel development.

"We wanted to discuss discharge together with you."

"Since you've already micromanaged the whole thing, what need is there?" Sherlock piles up the brochures and printouts and shoves them to the foot of the bed. "You can bin those."

"I assume John will want to have a look at them." The doctor's first name still feels slightly odd on the tongue instead of a more formal title.

"And him looking at them will make him want to sell me the idea. You can both spare me the lectures."

Mycroft sighs. How on Earth will anyone be able to introduce to Sherlock the idea that this about more than just jumping through hoops, lifting weights, pressing buttons and slipping back into his old life as though nothing had happened? There will be _consequences_. Whenever he has tried to raise the subject, he gets sternly shut down in a way that reminds him of conversations from long ago.

His help has often been necessary, but rarely welcome.

"I will come by tomorrow," he promises, and the fact that this does not even warrant a glance in his direction brings up some more memories.

He envies John Watson, for whom the past months will have been the worst of his memories of life with Sherlock Holmes in it.

For Mycroft, these are but the tip of an iceberg.

 

 ––– The End –––  
  



End file.
